


On Her Radar

by todaylookslikerain



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (i promise that it doesn't Get Weird), (very one-sided on mercy's end!!), F/F, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7469952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todaylookslikerain/pseuds/todaylookslikerain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fareeha is not Ana, you tell yourself, and you want to believe it. A short look at the complicated relationship between Mercy and the Amari women over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Her Radar

"You remind me of my daughter" isn't exactly what you want to hear from your crush. Admittedly, an inappropriate and unlikely-to-ever-happen crush, given that she's 23 years your senior. Your mind strays away from "completely unlikely"—after all, you're in medical school and part of a prestigious international task force at only 16, so it's not like you're _really_ a teenager. You're wise beyond your years (she's told you this on more than one occasion and you've replayed the memory so much in your mind that you have every syllable memorized), so it stings a bit to have the object of your affections compare you to a scrawny 11-year-old girl.

Fareeha is a nice kid, you suppose. Quiet, shy. Quite unlike her mother in anything other than her appearance. You've spoken to her on a few occasions and can't help but feel like a superhero when she stares at you with starry eyes and talks about her own dreams of joining Overwatch. But you're not like her. You're _in_ Overwatch. You're like Ana... who, of course, completely disapproves of her daughter's aspirations.

"By the time you're old enough to join, the world won't need us anymore," she says in a somewhat scolding tone despite her smile. "That's what we're fighting for. Right Angela?"

You feel your face flush as your name escapes her lips—not "Miss Ziegler," but _Angela_. She must consider you something of an equal if she refers to you so casually, right? You swallow hard, attempting to smother out the utter adoration in your throat before it escapes through your words. (Ana notices, of course, though she'd never tell you that. _Everyone_ notices.)

"Yes, of course!" you chime in, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. "You can still grow up to be like your mother, but in a world where it's safer to be a hero."

Fareeha frowns, shyly swinging her feet in circles.

"I never said I want to be like mom."

 

* * *

 

You finish bandaging her up after an especially hard-fought battle. The bleeding is the least of Ana's problem's and you wonder how she's able to stay so calm with a (now-recovering) bullet wound and several broken ribs. She's in stable condition, at least, and you find your breathing becoming more steady. You remind yourself that becoming too attached to your patients is dangerous. Your emotions inevitably end up triumphing reason. You need your brain to save comrades on the brink of death, not a flushed face and racing thoughts.

"You worry too much," she says with a grim smile. "This is hardly the worst wound I've had."

"Thanks to _someone_ always keeping an eye out for you in battle," you tease, washing your hands in the clinic's sink. As you turn off the faucet, you feel a pang of guilt in your chest. "Though I suppose that wasn't the case tonight..."

"You're not a miracle worker, Ange. I was on the other side of the field. There's no way you could have reached me in time."

You know she's right, but you still feel regret wash over your body. You're no longer 16 and putting her up on a pedestal. You know all too well that she's human—breakable, _killable_ , certainly not the immortal hero she was to you as a child—but that just makes you fuss over her even more.

"Well... don't forget that Fareeha's waiting for you at home," you say, hoping she doesn't hear the slip of jealousy in your words. You mentally scold yourself, ashamed that you're envious of her daughter of all people. You know their relationship is somewhat strained, but Fareeha will always be first in Ana's heart. After all, the only things that matter to Ana are her Overwatch duties and keeping her daughter safe. You likely weren't even on her radar. At best, you were two people fighting for the same cause.

"Hah! Knowing her, she'd probably be happier if you hadn't flown in and saved my ass at the last minute."

"Oh, don't say that. She's a teenager. I was moody at her age, too," you say, as though you're somehow the pinnacle of maturity and not just two years fresh out of your teens. You can't help but feel a little giddy that she's confiding in you, but you bite your lower lip and try to keep up an air of professionalism.

"Mm. Maybe," she says, suddenly looking a bit solemn. "Say, you're 21 now, right? Why don't we grab a drink?"

Well, so much for professionalism.

 

* * *

 

Nights at the bar become a regular occurrence for you and Ana. With Fareeha off in basic training and Overwatch's forces expanding rapidly, you both find yourselves with a bit more downtime. Since being promoted to Overwatch's head of medical research, you finally begin to feel like an actual member of the team despite your young age. Although Ana had never treated you like a child, per se, she had always been quite aware of your age and kept somewhat of a distance.

This was changing. You had grown to become friends—very good ones, in fact—and you felt somewhat embarrassed at your former crush. Well, "former" with an emphasis on the quotation marks. You would be lying if you said your feelings had completely dissipated; for instance, at the moment, you find yourself extremely fixated on Ana's lips as she tipsily rants on about an argument she had with Torbjorn over some sort of sports game. But as you had grown older, you realized that the chances of your feelings becoming reciprocated were slim to none. Twenty three years was... well, a lot. No wonder Ana had always compared you to her daughter. When Ana was your age, you were barely even a toddler. You couldn't fault the older woman for seeing you in such a juvenile light.

Four rounds of drinks later, Ana is slung over around your shoulder as you drag her back to headquarters. As always, Ana drank a bit more than she should have, and you tease her about getting weak in her old age. She playfully elbows you in the ribs, but as you reach her room, her face suddenly turns serious.

"Angela... you're a good friend," she says, her words somewhat slurred. "If... something ever happens to me, keep an eye out for Fareeha, will you?"

"I..."

You don't know what spurred the sudden change of tone. Ana was about to leave for a lengthier than usual mission in France, so this was likely your last drinking session for a while. Perhaps the mix of booze and her upcoming departure had simply made her a more sentimental drunk than usual.

"Of course, Ana. You know I'd do anything for you."

 

* * *

 

A few months later, you get the call in the middle of the night.

Her mission—tracking down the woman formerly known as Amélie Lacroix, now a dangerous Talon agent—had gone wrong.

She was gone.

You feel yourself shatter.

 

* * *

 

Ten years later, you find yourself back in a familiar headquarters.

"Doctor Ziegler, I'd like you to meet Fareeha Amari. She'll be joining our task force."

You feel the blood drain from your face as Winston introduces you. She's the splitting image of a younger Ana and you have trouble connecting Fareeha to the shy young girl in your memories. You try to say something, but words escape you.

"Ah, yes," she says, extending her hand to yours. "I believe we met many years ago when I was still a child."

You're suddenly immensely grateful that you're wearing gloves as she shakes your hand, unaware of how clammy your palms are beneath the fabric. Your eyes are fixated on her until she leaves the room and a heavy silence fills the air.

Fareeha is not Ana, you tell yourself, and you want to believe it.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, you grow to resent her. You resent her for being a ghost of her mother, a constant reminder that Ana is gone and never coming back. You know it's irrational to think this way, but you had buried all thoughts of Ana into your work only to have them overflow the second you saw Fareeha's face.

"Your mother always spoke very highly of you," you say to her during a routine examination. You had barely exchanged any words with the Egyptian woman since her arrival. It was hard to even muster up small talk without your thoughts wandering to territory you'd rather they not approach.

"To you, maybe," she says with a dark chuckle. "Never had much good to say about me to _me_ , unfortunately. I think we knew two very different Ana Amaris."

You feel anger rush through your veins. How _dare_ this woman—this imposter—come in and insult Ana? Ana, who had cared so much about her daughter. Ana, who should be here with her right now, not Fareeha.

"Doctor...?" she says, with evident urgency in her voice. You look down and notice that you're grabbing her arm, your nails digging into her skin and beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. "Doctor Ziegler, what's wrong?"

You don't just resent her. You hate her.

 

* * *

 

"I sense that you harbor some hostility towards me, doctor."

"Nonsense," you say, not looking up from your research. You don't want to give Fareeha the satisfaction of your full attention. Suddenly, her hands are on the desk in front of you, shoving the report you were working on into a flurry of pages scattered in the air. Before you can even react, she's grabbing you by the collar and staring you down.

It's then you realize that she doesn't have her mother's eyes after all.

"If we're going to be trusting each other with our lives on the battlefield, honesty would be a good start."

This is not a conversation you are willing to have. You break free of her grip and lean down to pick up your research, as though it was simply the wind that knocked it off your desk.

"What reason would I have to resent you, Miss Amari?"

"It's about my mother, isn't it? It always is with you people."

"I don't resent you because of your mother," you say calmly.

"So you're admitting that you _do_ resent me." It's a statement, not a question.

You don't reply.

"Just because you respected her doesn't mean I'm obligated to hold her in the same regard. I'm not my mother and I don't appreciate being treated as a lesser version of her. I am my own person. Ana Amari is never coming back and hating me for it won't change that fact."

"No, you're not her," you say coldly. "She's more than you'll ever be."

"It's not my fault my mother's dead. I was on the other side of the globe. Protecting her was your job, not mine."

Your composure breaks.

_"Shut up."_

You're fully aware how immature your retort is and that you're just proving her point, but you don't care. Tears well up behind your eyes but you refuse to let them pass; out of all people, you're not going to show weakness in front of Fareeha. Your head stings as a result—the harder you try to keep from crying, the worse the pain gets. You're hardly able to process the words escaping from her lips, lips that are only inches away from your own. Her face is so close that you can feel her breath.

"—are you even listening?!"

And with that, the tears spill out. Fareeha stares at you with wide eyes; clearly, it wasn't the reaction she expected. You fall to your knees, sobbing pathetically at her feet. You hate yourself far more than you could ever hate her.

 

* * *

 

The hostile coldness between you gradually softens. You're not exactly on _friendly_ terms, but you're no longer staring daggers at each other across the hallway.

One day at lunch, you ask her about one of her scars. It's the first actual conversation you've had with her since the confrontation in your office. More importantly, it's the first actual conversation with her that isn't about Ana. Fareeha smiles—a guarded smile, but a smile nonetheless—and begins a story about her time in the Egyptian army. Everyone always assumes it's a scar from some gruesome battle, she says, but she actually got it tripping down a staircase on her way to the canteen during her first week of training. You laugh, and to your surprise, it's sincere.

A few weeks later, Fareeha shows up to your office with a fresh tattoo (still slightly irritated) under her right eye.

"I was wondering if you'd like to get a drink with me, Doctor Ziegler?"

 

* * *

 

"Honestly, I was always a little jealous of you," she says, staring down into her untouched glass of whiskey. "I felt like you were more of a daughter to her than I could ever be."

You wince at her words, but not for the reason she thinks.

"And I was jealous of you because you _were_ her daughter," you say with a nervous laugh, slightly taken aback by your own honesty. You want to blame it on the alcohol, but as she had said a few weeks ago, it was time for them to start being honest with each other.

It's hard to see someone as a ghost when they're sitting right in front of you in the flesh. The differences begin to pile up in your mind. Fareeha is, well, much dorkier than Ana—perhaps it was because she hadn't spent most of her life fighting a war, but she certainly wasn't as rough around the edges. Despite her standoffish appearance, she was genuinely funny... and quite talented with puns, you admit to yourself through a groan at the third "Mercy" pun she's made since you both arrived at the bar.

And, of course, the different tattoo under her eye.

"I'm sorry for my behavior," you say quietly, aware that you're approaching dangerous territory in breaking the mood. "It was abhorrent. It must have left you with quite the terrible impression of me."

Fareeha smiles playfully at her, all but confirming the statement. Well, you can't really blame her.

"I just miss her. I never got to say goodbye and after she died, I just pushed away all my thoughts of her. And everything just kind of spilled out when you came into the picture. You didn't deserve it at all."

The other woman purses her lips together, deep in thought. After a few moments, she speaks.

"I... well, you must have known that my mother and I had our differences," she says, unsure of her words. "It's difficult for me to admit, but I miss her in my own way."

She places one of her hands on your own and smiles softly before speaking once again.

"We can miss her together."

You smile back.

"But for now, how about another drink?"

Fareeha is not Ana, you tell yourself, and this time you believe it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Ana Amari is never coming back"
> 
> hon hon hon well you certainly haven't seen the new character announcement, pharah. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> My first attempt at second-person present, so apologies if it's a tad clunky! I meant for this to be a bit more Pharmercy-ish, though I think it would've been awkward if I had made things too romantic between them, since this is largely a piece about Angela's mourning. Hope you liked it!


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